


Quiet Little Comforts

by illumynare



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: ASMR, Canon-Typical Sexual References, Canon-typical swearing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, basically Tucker being Tucker, i have an Aesthetic, it is people being nice to wash, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 13:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6660772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he already knew that Wash was all kinds of messed-up and weird. If that includes some kind of bizarre, aesexual sound fetish, Tucker supposes he can deal.</p><p>Or: the story in which Wash has ASMR, and Tucker uses his powers for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Little Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Sooner or later, we all have to write that fluffy id-fic. I REGRET NOTHING.

In the first few days after they stuff Wash into Church's armor, Tucker has . . . not exactly buyer's remorse, but definitely some buyer's suspicion.

Wash helped them fight the Meta. Wash was also working with the Meta five minutes before that, and he shot Donut like five minutes before _that,_ and when Tucker thinks about Donut he feels a sort of nauseous, white-hot anger that he isn't sure what to do with.

It's easier to just think that Wash was crazy, and now he's better. But that makes it perfectly possible that he'll go crazy again any minute. So Tucker watches him carefully.

Wash seems pretty sane, though. He finds them a jeep, bleeds, tells Caboose to shut up, bleeds, tells Doc to shut up, bleeds, shoots himself up with morphine and biofoam, and then wakes from a dead sleep to say, "Shut up, Tucker. How close are we to the nearest base?"

It's like that for the next couple days as they trek through the wilderness. Wash is paranoid and sarcastic and only sleeps when he's highly medicated, but otherwise he seems to be perfectly sane. He's actually pretty good at keeping both Caboose and Doc under control, and he's able to read maps and remember to refuel the jeep.

Then they reach the nearest Simulation Trooper base. It's not Blood Gulch, but as a place to hide from the UNSC, it's good enough.

And Wash just . . . stops.

Tucker doesn't notice at first, because Tucker, he's maybe not quite as much over the whole one-man-versus-an-army shit as he thought. Tucker's waking up from dreams of blood and sand and Junior screaming ( _He's safe, he's safe,_ Tucker chants to himself, Junior's back on Sanghelios again and he's _safe_ ), and he's starting and scrabbling for his sword when Caboose sneaks up on him.

You know you're fucked-up when _Caboose_ can sneak up on you.

But then there's a day when Tucker wakes up and the memories aren't so close, aren't itching right beneath his skin. He thinks, _Junior's safe,_ and he really believes it, and he decides to take a look around the stupid base they've ended up in.

The Reds are settled at the other end of the canyon because what the fuck, this is their life. Caboose is Caboose. Doc has taken off.

And Agent Washington is sitting at the dining room table, staring at nothing.

He's got his helmet off, which is how Tucker knows that Wash is staring at nothing and not, like, listening to radio messages from Planet Broody. It's also how he knows that Wash has a ridiculous number of freckles and a stupid baby face with chubby little cheeks that make him look about twelve.

And he's staring at nothing.

"So . . . this is creepy," Tucker says after a few moments.

Wash doesn't respond, which makes it even _more_ creepy, so Tucker waves a hand in front of his face.

Wash's hand snaps out, grabs Tucker's wrist, and wrenches it to the side so hard and fast that Tucker stumbles, definitely without a little girly yelp.

"What the fuck?" says Tucker.

Wash does a double-take, then releases Tucker's wrist.

"Sorry," he mutters, and flees the room.

Freelancers. Whatever.

That evening, Tucker sits at the table and sketches. It's something he started back when he was posted to the Diplomatic Corps with Junior. Until he learned enough Sangheili to actually help out, he had a lot of free time on his hands, and he spent a lot of it drawing: sometimes the architecture, sometimes that hot red-headed linguist, but mostly Junior. He practiced Sangheili while he did it, too, and sometimes Junior would wake up from a nap and correct his pronunciation. When he was stuck in that temple in the desert, Tucker kept doing it, sketching Junior on a battered old pad until he ran out of paper, then drawing stick figures in the sand, muttering Sangheili conjugations. It helped keep him sane.

It's making him feel better now. He sketches in the curve of Junior's mandibles and grins to himself as he mutters _Just like your old man_ in Sangheili.

And that's when he notices Creepy Agent Washington has reappeared. He's sitting on the other side of the table, watching him draw. Creepily.

"What is _up_ with you?" Tucker demands.

Wash takes a slow breath. "I'm totally, completely sane," he says, like that isn't irrelevant to the conversation and therefore _pretty damn crazy._

"Yeah, right," Tucker mutters. He really doesn't like Wash sitting there watching him draw, but he's not going to let the crazy Freelancer scare him away, so he goes back to work. He even keeps muttering Sangheili to himself, because _fuck you, Agent Washington._

When he looks up again, Wash has leaned forward, his head pillowed in his arms. He's asleep.

* * *

"Yeah," says Tucker. "He just watches me draw and then he goes to sleep." He pauses. "Actually, I think it's the only time he sleeps."

Simmons sniffs. "Well," he says, "he _is_ a bloodthirsty lunatic."

Tucker is currently in Red Base because he got so fucking bored, he actually tried to patrol the canyon, and if anyone asks, he definitely _let_ Simmons capture him because he was so bored.

He's also currently tied to a chair because Simmons read a book about knots and wants to impress his daddy-figure. Tucker is seriously regretting all of his choices.

"Yeah," says Tucker, "but he's not trying to kill me, he just, like, _listens_ to me. And then falls asleep. It's really creepy. Also, _you're_ really creepy, what the fuck, untie me now."

"Suck it, Blue," Simmons says absently. "Oh, hey. Maybe he has ASMR?"

"The only initials I heard in there were 'S' and 'M,' _bowchicka_ —"

"Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response," Simmons interrupts in his nerd-voice. "It's a little-studied but scientifically verified phenomenon. Certain sounds such as soft voices, quiet tapping, or hair-cutting trigger a pleasurable tingling in the scalp, along with feelings of deep peace and relaxation."

"So . . . ear porn," Tucker says after a minute, feeling just a _tiny_ bit awkward about how he'd started intentionally sketching when Wash was around. It's just, creepiness aside, Wash was usually semi-coherent when he woke up from one of his naps. He would help shout at Caboose and keep him from starting fires.

Simmons huffs. "Look, I'll show you a video."

He whips out his datapad, flips through several menus—"This one's my favorite!"—and then stands it up on the table. It's showing a video of a hot blonde woman with big, pouty lips all gooped up in pink gloss, and yeah, Tucker's totally fine with this.

 _"Hello,"_ the woman says in a soft, breathy voice as she stares soulfully into the camera. _"I'm going to be your stylist for today. I understand that you want a haircut? Something dramatic, or just a quick trim?"_

She nods, as if hearing a response. Tucker's seen videos like this before, but they usually involve the blonde woman being naked.

 _"Of course,"_ says the woman. _"I'm going to start by combing out your hair."_

She leans forward, mouth puckered thoughtfully, and starts stroking a comb to the side of the camera. There's a _ssshhh, ssshhh_ noise, and okay, Tucker is totally baffled.

"So . . . you're saying that Wash would get off on listening to this?" he asks.

"No!" Simmons says. "ASMR has been a recognized phenomenon since the twenty-first century, and everyone who experiences it says that it's not a sexual sensation."

Tucker considers this. Okay. So he already knew that Wash was all kinds of messed-up and weird. If that includes some kind of bizarre, aesexual sound fetish, Tucker supposes he can deal.

"IT'S NOT A FETISH!" Simmons yells, and Tucker jumps because when the fuck did he become psychic, except then he notices Grif slouching in the doorway, and yep, they're already neck-deep in an argument.

" _How_ many times do I have to tell you—"

"You like watching porn that doesn't even have sex in it. That is sick and wrong, my friend. Sick. And. Wrong."

 _"Now I'm going to dampen your hair,"_ the woman coos, and drums her fingernails against a spray-bottle.

It's kind of a relief when Wash shows up a few minutes later with an auto rifle, throws Tucker over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes in distress, and marches home with him.

"Ow, what the fuck, put me down," Tucker asks politely.

"Try not to get captured next time, Private Tucker," Wash says smugly, sounding a lot more alive than Tucker's ever heard him before.

"Fuck you!"

Tucker feels a little self-conscious that evening when he starts sketching and Wash silently appears at the other side of the table. But he's definitely done weirder things, so he keeps drawing, and he keeps muttering Sangheili to himself, and the next morning, Wash organizes a retaliatory raid on the Reds.

That evening, they drink the beer they looted from Red Base, and Wash actually laughs. It makes him sound as young and dorky as his face, and Tucker thinks, _Okay, I can deal with this._

* * *

It's been a month since they crashed on this miserable planet, and all Tucker can think about is how he doesn't have any pencils.

The problem is Wash. He started out as a Concerned Asshole (Tucker's ribs were bruised, not broken, _thank you Agent Washington now please stop shrieking_ ), worked his way through Paranoid Asshole (Tucker wanted to know why they were alphabetizing the MREs, not 548 horrifying facts about starvation experiments), and now he's ended up as a . . . Tucker would say "Melodramatic Asshole," but a melodramatic Agent Washington—staring into the sunset and pronouncing their inevitable doom—is a normal Agent Washington, and about as close to happy as tragic ex-Freelancers can get.

No, Wash is really just a Silent Asshole these days, and at first it was honestly a relief. But now? 

It's way too much like he was after Sidewinder.

Wash isn't quite that bad yet. Every day he works on the radio and he yells at the Reds. But he's spending more and more time sitting in their base, staring at nothing, and Tucker can't help thinking that if he could just sit down next to him and start sketching again, maybe that thing with the initials he can't remember (except that they're not S&M) would happen again and fix Wash.

But though they managed to salvage a lot of things from the wreck, pencils weren't among them. Or paper.

And now Wash is shutting down, and Tucker can't stop thinking that _he did this._ It's his fault that the ship crashed, and he can maybe, sort of, sometimes forget how many people died, but he can't forget Wash falling apart right in front of him.

He actually considers asking Simmons to share his weird videos, except (1) he probably lost his datapad in the wreck, and (2) No. Just No.

So it's up to Tucker.

They did salvage a comb and scissors. Tucker finds them, and then he looks himself in the mirror and tries to give himself a pep-talk.

He can do this. He watched like 45 seconds of a video once, and sure, he always thought that any role-playing he did would be a lot sexier and involve more chicks, but he can _totally do this._

He pouts at the mirror and coos experimentally, "I'll be your stylist for OH MY GOD THIS IS WEIRD."

But he has to try.

* * *

Epsilon screamed as he died. 

It wasn't a human scream, it was an endless binary wail of rage and pain, 10100110101011011010, on and on and on until Wash couldn't remember his own name.

It didn't stop when they pulled him. Wash woke up in the infirmary hearing Epsilon scream. And he kept on hearing it: when he was locked away in the psych ward, fighting to piece his mind back together. When he was Recovery One, bleeding out from South's bullets. When he looked at the translucent form of a Sim Trooper and realized, _This is the Alpha._ The screams were always there, clawing at the back of his mind.

Fighting the Meta on Sidewinder--lying on his back, staring up at his own bloody, weaponless hands--Wash could still hear Epsilon screaming. He thought he would die hearing it.

But then he woke up to the Reds and Blues squabbling as they stripped the armor off his body. And his first thought was, _Why are they so fucking loud?_

In the days that followed, the noise never stopped, but Wash started to be grateful for the constant yells of "SUCK IT, BLUE!" and "TUCKER DID IT!" Because slowly, slowly, Epsilon's screams were starting to fade away, breaking up in the static of his memories. There were new sounds to replace them: the scratch of Tucker's pencil against paper, Caboose muttering, "Sneaky sneaky," his team breathing as they slept.

When Wash held a gun to Carolina's head and said, _Protecting my team,_ there was no sound in his head except a clear, beautiful silence. He felt nothing except an absolute certainty. And he thought, afterwards, that his mind was finally his own.

Then the _Hand of Merope_ crashed.

And now Wash can't stop hearing screams again.

Not everyone died on impact. There were people screaming when Wash woke up, when he dragged Tucker and Caboose out of the wreckage. He tried to go back and save some of the crew, he really did, but he couldn't get to any of them in time.

That night, when Wash tried to sleep, all he heard were their screams.

They haven't stopped since.

At first it was bearable. There was so much to keep him busy, setting up the bases and organizing the supplies. But then they settled into a routine, and Wash is trying to keep it together, trying to stay focused on getting them out of here alive, but the screaming won't stop.

He can't sleep. He knows that's bad. He spends a lot of time sitting very still, thinking nothing except _I am Agent Washington_ over and over again, the way he did in the psych ward and after Sidewinder. And he knows that's really bad.

He just hopes he can fix the damn radio before he completely loses his mind.

It's early evening. Wash is sitting at the table in the base, and he's trying to relax: his helmet is off, and there's a lukewarm MRE in front of him. But all he hears is screaming, and all he can think is _my fault,_ and he's not thinking it in Epsilon's voice, not _yet,_ but there was a simulation where the Alpha watched all the Freelancers die in a spaceship crash and he can feel that memory tugging at his brain—

"Time for a haircut," Tucker announces.

"What?" says Wash, blinking at him.

"Yeah," says Tucker. He's got a comb and a pair of scissors. "Time for Blue Team haircuts. I already did Caboose, now it's your turn."

"Haircuts," Wash says flatly, because he figures that at this point, the _are you fucking kidding me_ goes without saying.

"It's in, uh, Article 301.4 of the UNSC Regulations. Haircuts every three weeks."

Wash rolls his eyes. "Article 301.4 is about proper saluting between different branches of—"

That's when Tucker tries to stick the comb in his hair and Wash flails, hard.

"Dude, don't _kill_ me," Tucker yelps, jumping back. "Is this, like, some Freelancer thing? Murdering your hairdressers?"

"I wasn't aware you'd been to beauty school," says Wash, but there's guilt twitching in his gut, _my fault my fault_ , bulkheads falling and bones shattering—

Suddenly Tucker's hand is pressing down on the back of his neck, warm and firm, and it's. It's someone _alive_ , not one of the bodies he dragged out of the wreck, not Epsilon's phantom fingerprints, and it short-circuits something in his brain. Enough that he doesn't move.

"Okay. I'm just combing your hair," Tucker says, more quietly. "Hold still."

Wash still twitches when he feels the comb touch his scalp, but it's all right. He breathes out slowly, unclenches his fingers one by one as the comb strokes through his hair. It's all right.

"Yeah," says Tucker. "It's fine. I'm going to start cutting on the left side of your head, okay?

Then he makes two quick cuts next to Wash's ear, _snip snip,_ and Wash shivers because it feels like the noise is running straight down his spine.

Epsilon was like that. Everything channeled straight through his neural implants into his brainstem, raw lightning bolts of _hatefeargriefPAIN—_

But this is different. This is safe.

 _Snip,_ the scissors go again, and Wash's scalp prickles.

"Yeah," says Tucker, and he must be leaning close because Wash can feel the puff of air on the back of his head. "Yeah, I think that's gonna look okay. Tilt your head."

He makes another cut, but this time slowly, and the sound of the scissors is a long _schhhnick_ that feels like it's slicing through all of the tension in Wash's back.

There's a gentle tingling sensation spreading across his scalp. It's like the time he was listening to Tucker's pencil scratch against the paper and he first thought, _I can stay here._ Like the time Connie gave him a head-rub after an awful mission and he thought, _I have friends._

He can't hear the screams anymore. He can't hear anything except Tucker muttering to himself—some probably bullshit story about visiting Junior on Sanghelios—and the _snip, snip_ of the scissors. The barely-there rustle of the comb in his hair.

When Tucker says, "Okay, I need you to lean forward so I can get the right angle," and presses on the back of head—Wash isn't dumb. He knows this is some weird plan to make him sleep.

But it's working.

Probably tomorrow he will be incredibly embarrassed and this will become one of those things they never speak of again, but right now Wash is just so tired, and for the first time since the ship crashed, he feels _safe._

He leans forward, resting his forehead on his arms. Tucker runs the comb through his hair again, from the crown of his head to the base of his neck. Wash thinks fuzzily that he isn't even pretending this is a real haircut anymore, but then:

_Snip. Snip._

Tucker's still rambling, in the softest voice Wash has ever heard him use: "Yeah, so apparently _blarg chuck chunk_ doesn't mean the same thing as _blarg chuck chuck_ , and luckily the judge ruled we weren't legally married, but _wow_ that was a long week. So then . . ."

Wash sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> (The coda, of course, is that Wash wakes up refreshed and decides that Tucker needs to start training.)
> 
> Yes, [ASMR is a real thing](https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/style/a-whisper-then-tingles-then-87-million-youtube-views-meet-the-star-of-asmr/2014/12/12/0c85d54a-7b33-11e4-b821-503cc7efed9e_story.html). If you're curious: [some](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qyGV0TOsrmQ) [sample](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgpaytdDIaA) [videos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H15K0fvnB2Q).
> 
> I need to credit saltsanford's excellent [The Long Road Back to Good](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5142290) for the (very logical) idea that the Reds & Blues were hanging out at a third, unnamed Sim Trooper base between season 8 & 9.


End file.
